


Doubt

by Sunflower82597



Series: UshiHina Weekly Prompts [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Artist!Hinata, Biting, College AU, College dorms, Consensual Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Falling In Love, Festivals, Habits, I can only write sappy romcom's i swear, Light Choking, M/M, MedicalStudent!Ushijima, Pining, Riding, Roommates, UshiHina - Freeform, UshiHina Prompts, Volleyball, angst? what's that?, caffeine buzz, like forgetting to eat or sleep, lots of fluff, minor ships, national teams, only a lil' bit of angst at the beginning, school stress, they can be considered somewhat unhealthy, though they're both idiots and dont realize it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 09:45:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10160489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunflower82597/pseuds/Sunflower82597
Summary: College Au.Young artist, Hinata Shōyōu, is incredibly talented with a brush, blank canvas, and palette of paints, but when it comes to roommates...not so much, having had difficulties blending his habits with that of others. Left with only one option, he moves in with his local Resident Advisor, an intimidating, cold, unemotional medical student named Ushijima Wakatoshi. Hinata immediately doubts they could ever become friends, but he soon finds that the man will open up a new world of inspiration to him, making him see in colors so vibrant, he knows he never wants to live without them--without him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Back at it again with week two! Even though I'm a smidge late-- life got a little bit crazy, with Uni, hospital work, and helping a friend paint her apartment... I digress. I will use it as an excuse, just in case this is riddled with mistakes and weird phrases! 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this weeks piece! I liked incorporating art aspects and jokes from comics I've read (which I will try and find links for, and figure out how to do that, so I can credit them for the humor, as I am not funny at all.), even though there was parts that were a bit tricky to put into words! 
> 
> Like last time, their is explicit smut at the end of the chapter, you can skip it and read the 5-6 chapters of the story!
> 
> Enjoy!

_Oh fair and flighty love, my aerolite above, the only dove I see/ Could you love me more, if by the sun and moon I swore, that I would never flee? --Bitter Water_ , The Oh Hello's

-☾-

“You do realize that this is the _third_ time this semester that someone requested a room change with you, correct?”

Hinata kisses his teeth and pointedly looks at the well-polished, reflective name plaque that reads _Ukai K. Dean of Students_. He nods his head and wrings his ink-stained fingers together, sighing out a defeated, _“Yup.”_

The dean mirrors his sighs, rubbing a hand over tired-looking eyes before flopping back into his plush leather arm-chair. The man reaches into the breast pocket of his sport coat, fingers fishing out a small stainless-steel container he keeps his cigarettes in. He flicks the container open and sticks one of the hand-rolled sticks into his mouth, gumming at the cigarette instead of lighting it.

Hinata watches the man’s actions with an eyebrow raised, “I thought you were trying to quit?”

Ukai fixes the student with a flat look, snapping the case shut with a harsh _‘click’_. “These are extenuating circumstances,” he mutters around the smoke, folding his arms criss-cross and leaning forward against his desk, placing his folded arms on top. “Now. What do you think we should do about this… _situation_?”

Hinata sighs once more. If being completely honest, he didn’t really know what he _could_ do, let alone what he _should_ do; he knows that he doesn’t have very many options to pick from, and each seemed equally terrible and unfortunate in their own ways. Shōyōu knows that he isn’t a ‘top’ priority at his university, having only gotten in by the grace of the gods and the skin of his teeth—his test scores meager in comparison to the hefty and well- constructed art portfolio presented for his admission into the art department. He was talented, that much was evident, a true developing master of his tools and craft, judging by the free-spirited, impressionistic thick spreads of oil paint, un-definitive line work, and his blending of pigments; it was clear he put pieces of himself in every delicate portrait or expansive landscape, making him a wise candidate for an addition to the program. They accepted him with eager and beckoning arms, offering him a scholarship and a place in the dorms. He happily agreed and found his niche as a second semester first-year, making steadfast friends and connections quickly and easily, everything seemingly falling into perfect pieces.

Except, everything wasn’t _always_ like that. He remembers the first time the Dean requested a meeting with him—he had been _terrified_ , still young and wet behind the ears to the college life, the fear of rejection and failure plainly written upon shaky legs and trembling lips. Walking into the large room had been difficult, the short distance between the entryway and the accompanying chair seemingly miles away. The feel of the room had been heavy and thick, almost suffocating as the scents of sharp, acrid cologne and secretly-smoked cigarette tobacco permeate into his nostrils. The overlying feeling of _something is wrong_ made his gut feel punctured, and made his steps sound loud in the otherwise quiet room, the only other noise breaking the tension being the shuffling of manila filing folders and crisply printed paper work. He sat when the older man gestured for him to do so, falling stiffly into the plastic chair that contradicted the appearance of total-ease and comfort the other exuded—all loose-limbed and surrounded by well-kept office furniture, bookshelves, and antiquities.

They had shared a lengthy moment of silence, the freshman much too spooked to ask why he was here, and the Dean much to awkward to bring up such a delicate topic—especially since the kid looked so nervous to be sitting in his office in the first place. He sighs, shoulders sagging as he flips open the student file on _Hinata Shōyōu,_ “Look, kid, you’re not in trouble or getting expelled, so just…relax, okay? You look like you’re about to have an aneurysm and shit yourself. I just need to know what’s going on between you and your roommate.”

Hinata had blinked, confused head cocked to the side. “What about my roommate?”

Ukai raised a thick eyebrow, eyes glancing back down to read over the piece of paper. “Well, this is a roommate change request from your roommate, Tsukkishima Kei, who wrote some…” he pauses to clear his throat awkwardly, “… _remarks_ about you, and why he wants to switch as soon as possible. Know anything about that?”

Hinata frowned and furrowed his brows, “Not really… What did he say?”

Ukai scratched at his forehead, squinting apologetically at the redhead as he read, “’He is loud, obnoxious, over-exuberant over menial things, and is unequivocally insane when he gets in one of his ‘moods’. He never sleeps, he eats like a pig, and he is a literal dumbass. Please switch my dorm application immediately.”’

Hinata scoffed and angrily threw his hands in the air, borderline shrieking, “What the hell! He’s such a jerk! If anyone should be requesting for someone else to live with, it should be me! He’s always snarky, rude, and unnecessarily sarcastic about everything. I try and to be respectful of his space, and try not to leave a mess…” his scowl darkens, “…and I don’t get in _‘moods,’”_ he mocked with a sneer.

Ukai holds up his hands in mock surrender, “Hey, I’m just repeating what he said on his form,” he pursed his lips and tapped a finger against the desk in a steady rhythm, “Look, you’re a good kid. I know you’re here on a scholarship and worked hard to even be here, and I’ve seen a couple of your pieces, and I have to say…they are something special. It would be a complete shame if we had to loose your talents, so don’t worry—we’re not kicking you out of school. We’ll try and find you a new roommate, maybe one that’s a little more compatible,” he says with an easy grin, “So, just try and be a little more… considerate on some of the things your previous roommate had said, yeah?”

The auburnette practical lunged out of his chair, shaking the Dean’s hand excitedly, shouted promises of, _‘It won’t happen again!’_ thrown over small shoulders as he rushed out of the door.

Ukai is somewhat disappointed—though admittedly not surprised—when it happens again. The same recounts from previous holding through on the next application. When he calls Hinata to the office, he asks the dejected looking boy what they mean by ‘moods’.

He had looked almost embarrassed to have to emit to it, and he does so begrudgingly, chewing on his bottom lip thoughtfully as he tries to find the right way to begin. He took a deep breath and started, “Well, I can’t always create… or inspiration isn’t always there, and I can’t just _force_ myself to paint something. I mean, I can, it’s just…not the same. So, sometimes I find things that inspire me, and I get a little…carried away.”

Ukai nodded his head slowly, his dark eyebrows scrunched as he tries to completely understand the younger’s words, “Carried away how…?”

Hinata had curled inwardly on himself, self-conscious, “I uh… forget to eat, use the bathroom, and sleep, staying up for hours trying to finish a project. I’ll just rush around, not really caring what’s going on, just that I need to find specific paints or brushes…” he sighs, shrugging, “I dunno’, I’ve had people say it’s creepy how I can just concentrate for hours upon hours, that I look almost manic, and that I’m completely unresponsive…” he mumbles, face coloring a humiliated red.

Ukai hums, signing off on some documents, giving a reassuring nod to Hinata, then shooing the hopeful looking boy out of his office, saying confidently, “Leave it to me. But don’t let this happen again!” He points a stern, single finger at the boy, clearly meaning business.

Hinata again runs out of the room, similar promises being uttered as he silently praises the gods above for gracing him with another chance.

It happens again, though not immediately, the young man’s roommate taking a few months to finally break down and submit the request, leaving Hinata slumping in the familiar, uncomfortable plastic chair across from his Dean who is looking at him expectantly.

“I can’t move out…I don’t have the money to. And I don’t want to leave…” he mumbles, thinking of ways to tell his mother what’s going on, and then thinking of all the ways his mother might _kill_ him for being such an idiot; he pales at the thought, expression twisting into abject horror. Ukai snorts at his expression, and Hinata curses the older man for laughing at his pain, “Look, I have an idea that doesn’t involve transferring or making you find some shit-ass apartment.”

Hinata stares at him in distrust, wary of any other option he didn’t think of, “What is it?”

Ukai grins, “In a week, you can move in with your Resident Advisor. He lives by himself in a pretty decent dorm room, and it’s even in the same building and floor as yours!” he cackles at Hinata’s gaping mouth.

“Did you even ask him about this yet?!” the young man squawks.

“Sure did,” he drawls lazily, “He already agreed.”

Hinata splutters, trying to find an excuse as to why the proposed plan would never work—though, if he was being honest, he really just doesn’t like his RA. Every encounter left the redhead bristling over something said—or sometimes lack of something said—the stoic giant coming off as cold and intimidating when approached; he was much too stiff, blunt, and arrogant for Hinata’s liking.

Ukai fixed the young man with a hard stare, silencing the protests that bubbled out of Hinata’s throat.

“Look, it’s convenient—you don’t have to find an apartment, or switch floors, and I think it would actually be _beneficial_ to both of you—he’s a real ‘no nonsense’ type, and will keep you in line, while you might add a little life to ‘em…” he trails off, scrunching his face in contemplation, “…He doesn’t seem to do much besides go to class and the gym...” he shakes his head and looks at a pouting Hinata, “Make it work, got it? This _is the last time_ I’m sticking my neck out for you.”

Hinata sighs and nods, standing up and giving a respectful bow, trudging his way out of the office and down the hall, allowing his feet to mechanically move his body as his mind strays on auto-pilot; he wasn’t sure how to go about handling this, a swell of anxiety prickling under his skin like painful, sticky burrs. He began to feel queasy, stopping outside his room to rest his forehead against the chipping, painted door to collect himself for a moment before fumbling in his pockets, patting around for his phone and keys. He stuck the key in the lock and kicked the door shut behind him, happy to see his roommate wasn’t home. He slunk down to the floor, curling his knees up to his chest as he scrolls through his phone, pressing the _‘call’_ button besides the contact profile for _‘Ya-chan!!’_

He gnaws on his bottom lip, chewing on the loose, dry skin in hopes of containing his nervous energy as he listens through the monotonous dial tone. It finally connects with a _‘click’_ , a sunny voice chirping on the other side of the line, “Hello!”

He sighs in relief, breathing out a “Ya-chan? Do you have a second?”

The blonde hums in confirmation, “Is everything okay?”

He chuckles without humor, “Not entirely…”

“Tell me what happened.”

So he does, taking his time in explaining his situation, his friend staying on the line and listening politely, interjecting with a question or comment when needed, just letting the young man get out any of his worries and frustrations before giving any solid advice. When he’s finished, their roles reverse—he stays quiet, listening to her thoughtfully as she explains that he should look forward to be given another chance to make the dorms work, and that maybe they’ll become friends.

“…I mean, opposite’s do attract…and he’s kind of cute Shō,” she teases, giggles laced in her words.

Hinata flushes and squawks, “Oh my _god,_ _no!_ So not the point Yachi! The point is that he’s all…” he struggles to find the words, Yachi’s giggles growing into full out snorts of laughter at his floundering, “Sh-shut up!”

She sniffs as she tries to recollect herself, “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. You know it’ll be okay. You’re good at making things turn into miracles, and you’re super amazing at making friends with even the most difficult people—like Kageyama, for example—so just try your best. You’re not one to give up on things easily anyways. If it doesn’t work, though, we’ll figure it out together, okay?”

“Okay… thank you…” he mumbles, feeling small and vulnerable, though relieved to have such a caring friend like Yachi.

“Of course!” she chirps, “I have to go now, Kiyoko is calling me for dinner. Let me know how it turns out, okay Love you, Shō!”

He lets out an airy chuckle, “Yeah, yeah. Thanks again, and I will. Love you too.”

Hinata hangs up the phone, flopping the device down on the floor next to him, mind buzzing as he processes Yachi’s words. He musters up his last little bits of courage and makes up his mind.

By the end of the week, he will move in with Ushijima Wakatoshi, local RA, and he was going to make it work—or die trying.

-☾-

He feels accomplished on his move in day—he managed to move all of his belongings (which were scarce and few between) by himself, lugging heavy boxes half his size through narrow corridors, the containers crammed to the brim with random oddities, dirty clothes, and his school materials. His body feels heavy and tired; muscled arms protesting each time their lifted, legs wobbly from running back and forth from room to room constantly. He slumps down to the floor after setting down the last box, rubbing a hand through his sweaty curls, pushing the drippy tendrils from his eyes. He had taken time earlier to admire the room; it was spacious, being hardly furnished and sparsely decorated—save a few framed photographs, posters, and a corkboard pinned with a hundred different reminders towering over a desk—and also fastidiously tidy. Hinata wonders if perhaps Ushijima had tidied up beforehand, or if he was always this spotlessly clean; he supposed the feel of the room fit the cold and callous personality of the RA. There’s an extra bed and desk for him shoved against the opposite side of the room, illuminated by a sunny window, and he sighs happily at having some sort of natural light. He allows himself a moments rest before hoisting himself up from his seated position, promptly setting to work sorting through his belongings, deciding on what should go where and what can get resorted through later.

He rolls onto his knees, a small box of odds and ends (and secret snacks for a later date) in hand, doing his best to wedge it under his bed and out of the way of prying eyes. He tries to get leverage, pushing a couple of other stored containers out of the way, crawling practically halfway under his bed-frame to arrange everything to fit properly. He’s still halfway under his bed when he hears a gruff voice, “Oh. You’re already moved in.”

He squeaks, jolting upright at the sound, having not heard the man come inside the room, smacking the back of his head hard against the wooden bed-frame with a meaty _‘thunk’._ He hisses and curses, quickly scrabbling out from under the bed, falling on his butt and clutching at the sore spot on his head. He glares up at the towering giant above him, a flush of embarrassment and anger on his freckled cheeks, “Yeah, hello to you too. Can you at least let a guy know when you’re in a room? God, you’re eerily quiet for being gigantic.”

Ushijima just blinks, “Hello. Let me see your head.” Before Hinata could stutter out a protest, the RA was crouching down, long fingers grasping at the back of his head, tilting it more towards the light so he could peer at the tender skin.

“Uh—what—“ he tries to begin, trying to move his head away from prodding, insistently gentle fingers. Ushijima hums, muttering to himself under his breath, “No visible signs of hematoma on the occipital, though there is redness indicative of blunt force trauma that radiates approximately three inches in diameter from original collision,” he pauses to apply pressure to the swollen mark, making Hinata wince and whine, “There is tenderness upon palpation—“

Hinata groans and swats the hands away, “What does that even mean?!”

“You hit your head and now you have a bump,” he simplifies.

Hinata stares at him, deadpanned, “Why didn’t you just say that?!”

Ushijima just shrugs, “Habit. Would you like some ice?”

“…No. I’m fine, thanks…”

They sit in awkward silence for a moment before Ushijima stands and makes his way to his desk, flipping open a plastic bag and digging through it’s contents. When he finds what he was looking for, he holds it out for Hinata to take. He does so with a raised eyebrow, “What’s this?”

“Milk bread. I asked Oikawa what I should do, since you were moving in today, and he insisted that I buy you milkbread. Though, he did steal the other one, so I think he just wanted free milkbread.”

Hinata snorts out a chuckle, a slight grin tilting his lips, “Well, thank you. I didn’t think to get you anything…”

“Not a problem. Are you all settled in?”

He gives a nod, breaking open the cellophane packaging and retrieving the sweet smelling treat from inside, taking a hefty bite. He moans at the delicacy that hits his tongue, stomach growling in anticipation of the incoming food—a reminder that he didn’t take anytime to eat today. He shovels the rest into his mouth, licking the filling off of his fingers, his belly contented temporarily from the snack. He glances at Ushijima who is just staring at him, eyebrow raised in question at the ravenous state of the redhead.

Hinata laughs sheepishly, “Sorry. I was starving, totally forgot to eat all day.”

Ushijima ducks his head, lips twitching, “I will have to remember to bring more for next time.”

Hinata beams, eyes and nose scrunching from the sheer force of his smile, excited of the promises of free food in the near future, “I think you and I will get along just fine.”

-☾-

“I hate him.”

Kageyama rolls his eyes as he sits across from the redhead, “Yes, you’ve said so, like, a million times already.”

Hinata huffs, red cheeks puffing agitatedly, “I just don’t get him!”

Yachi smiles sympathetically, patting his arm from her position adjacent to the simmering young man, “You’ve also said that a lot.”

He groans and hangs his head, uncrossing the arms that were hugged around his middle, flopping forward on the bed as if boneless, face muffled in a pile of fleece blankets and pillows, “I know, I know.”

The trio was currently settled in Yachi’s room, all three crammed on her shared bed. Kageyama and Yachi shared a look, turning back to the helpless artist. Hinata knows he was being overdramatic about the whole ordeal, but he was still sore about what had happened between him and Ushijima.

The two had just been sitting in silence, which had quickly become the norm for the pair, the RA typing on his laptop as Hinata sketched in his notebook, when Ushijima had swiveled around in his desk chair and asked, straight-faced, “So, Ukai told me that you were on scholarship here. Your scores must not have made you illegible for the university, so how did you get in?”

Hinata’s pencil ceased its shading, honey eyes narrowing as they darted to look at Ushijima, expression affronted. “You’re joking right…?”

Ushijima looked confused, “No. Was what I asked unclear? Let me rephrase, why did you get accepted if not for scholastic reasons?”

Hinata sets his pencil down completely, “I’m an artist.”

Ushijima crinkles his brow, not understanding the relevance of Hinata’s statement, “As a hobby?”

The redhead throws his hands up in frustration, “What the _fuck_ , no. This is my career track. That’s how I got accepted.”

The RA blinks at him, “Well, that doesn’t seem like a stable career track—“

Hinata fixes the older man with a glare, “Don’t even finish that sentence.”

He receives a blink in return, olive eyes returning the stare evenly, “I didn’t mean to offend you. I just don’t see how something like art could support you in the future. There are many other fields I’m sure you could explore—“

“What like _medical school_? Or, or—what, some kind of _businessman_ , or an _engineer_?” he sneers with disdain, crawling off of his bed and gathering up his backpack.

“Those are all perfectly acceptable fields, yes.”

“Well, _Ushiwaka_ , we can’t all be _shining stars_ in the academic world like you, or be perfectly cold, unemotional, insensitive _assholes_ like you. Some people are destined to be garbage compared to you, and I guess that’s just where I’m meant to be,” he mutters darkly, caustic words cutting into the medical student’s mask of indifference, flickers of surprised hurt clouding wide olive-green eyes, and tugging at the corners of his mouth into a pained frown. He shoves random things into his backpack—a couple of spare pieces of clothing, his computer and chargers, and his sketchbook—forcefully zipping the bag closed and throwing it over a shoulder.

“Hinata, I—“

He yanks open the door, muttering a ‘ _Whatever,_ ’ on passing through the entryway, phone already dialing Yachi’s number.

He hadn’t been home in about three days, still licking his wounds over the whole ordeal, happy to just stay cooped up on Yachi’s couch, skipping class, bundled in a blanket. Yachi was sympathetic and kind, receiving the disgruntled and verging tearful Hinata with open arms and warm, comforting cuddles; she began to realize after he began to skip class that he needed some back-up in the matter, quickly calling Kageyama to help get the auburn-haired man out of his funk.

“Dumbass, you’re really being shitty about this. You know how he is; you shouldn’t have immediately jumped into a fight about it. He probably feels like shit, especially since you haven’t been home in forever,” Kageyama grumbles.

Yachi nods, “You need to find an equal ground with him. He needs to understand your life, just like you need to make an active effort and try to understand him as well.”

Hinata rolls to lie on his back, side of his face red from being smashed between the pillows, “How would I even do that?”

Kageyama gives him a look that clearly reads, _‘You’re an absolute idiot, why are we even your friends.’_ “Just ask him.”

Honey eyes look over to Yachi to get her input, receiving a nod of affirmation.

“Right…I guess I’ll just…talk to Ushiwaka,” he murmurs, the duo sharing high-fives at finally getting through to the hardheaded artist.

Hinata snorts at the two, “Since when were the sensible one, _Bakayama,”_ he teases, his familiar, sunny smile returning to his features.

The two friends begin to bicker their familiar banter, tensions easing and ebbing from the room and entirely from Hinata’s being, the young man feeling lighter since understanding what to do.

He smiles endearingly at his friends, chest warm and full of affection and love for the two; he knows he owes them big time, and he’s sure he’ll find a way to make it up to them somehow.

-☾-

He titters outside his dorm door that night, bouncing nervously from foot to foot, key hovering just outside the door handles lock, his anxieties keeping him from walking inside; he curses at himself internally, berating himself for being so nervous and intimidated. He takes a deep breath after a few moments, steeling his nerves, driving his key into the lock and opening the door, walking inside to his familiar room.

Ushijima is perched at his desk, hunched over a hefty looking textbook, pen scratching at a notebook, knee bouncing agitatedly, the only light illuminating the room coming from the orange glow of his small desk lamp. Upon hearing the door open, he whips his head around, eyes widening at seeing Hinata walk through the door; the redhead is surprised his neck didn’t crack, and his circular-framed glasses didn’t skew at the sheer force of the rotation.

“Hinata,” his deep timbre murmurs, surprise twined in his words.

He remains in the doorway awkwardly, his mind and body frozen like a deer in headlights, grip on his backpack straps white-knuckled to keep himself grounded. “Hey, Ushiwaka…” he murmurs, shuffling inside after a moment, shutting the door behind him softly and kicking off his shoes.

He smiles sheepishly, hands scratching at the short curls at the nape of his neck, “I, uhm… ran out of clothes to wear…” he tries to joke, though it lacks any hint of humor, falling flat.

Ushijima nods mutely, almost disappointedly.

A thick moment of silence falls over them as Hinata sets his bag down and crawls into his bed, curling up against the wall, each of the two men wary on saying anything first.

Hinata begins to say, “Look, I—“ as Ushijima says, “Hinata, I’m—“ both effectively cutting each other off. Hinata couldn’t help the smile that cracks through his nervousness, teeth shiny white in the dim light, breathy chuckles escaping past his lips.

“Go ahead,” he says to the brunette, who takes a deep breath through his nose before sighing, setting his pencil down and turning around to fully face his roommate.

“I’m sorry, about what I said before. I…understand now, how my words could have been very insensitive and dismissive.”

Hinata blinks at him, “No, I should be the one to apologize. I shouldn’t have reacted so badly… It’s just something that I hear a lot, and I’m better now at not letting it bother me, but it still can. I’ve never been really smart, so it’s kind of…my only redeeming quality,” he says with a self-deprecating laugh.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Ushijima says firmly, “It also still does not change the fact that what I said was uncalled for. So, I hope you can forgive me.”

Hinata ducks his head, biting at his lips to hide the widening of his smile, “Of course. I hope you can do the same. I shouldn’t have ever said those things about you and stormed off like that.”

Ushijima nods, “Apology accepted.”

Hinata sighs in relief, a heavy weight lifted from his thin shoulders. He slinks down to lay fully on his bed, wrapping himself completely in his comforter, his bed feeling like heaven compared to the couch he subjected himself to sleep on the last few nights.

Silence falls comfortably over the pair, the scratch of Ushijima’s pen creating a monotonous melody of noise that begins to lull Hinata into a dream like state of contentedness, the darkness from the room permeating the orange glow that stained the light behind dropping eyelids.

“What do you do for fun, Ushiwaka?”

The pen stops in its’ tracks, “Do you insist on calling me that?”

“Yes.”

A resigned sigh, “I play volleyball for the National Team.”

Hinata _‘ooh’s’_ , a gargled little noise of wonder and interest that was tainted with his impending sleep. “That’s so cool! Will you tell me about it sometime?”

There’s a smile in the RA’s voice as he replies, “If you’d like me to, then yes.”

Hinata hums happily, blurry eyes trailing over Ushijima’s large frame, taking in the illuminated shadows that run across the tips of his short-cropped hair, across the expanse of his broad shoulders, before becoming lost in the stillness of night-time that wraps around his waist and back. They fall back into a sort of strange peace, Hinata silently observing as Ushijima works, and he feels the sudden crave to have a pencil and paper in his hands to capture the moment, but his sluggish body readily ignores the want, keeping him firmly planted in his cocoon of blankets.

He’s just about asleep, eyelids shut firmly and body relaxed, when Ushijima pipes up quietly, “My teammates—friends—told me that I needed to try and understand your point of view better. So, I looked up your paintings.”

“Oh, yeah? Wha’d’you think of ‘em?” he slurs drowsily, eyes fluttering open before closing again, catching the same familiar sight of Ushijima’s back, sighing deeply through his nose to stifle a long yawn.

If he was surprised at Hinata still being awake, he didn’t let it show in his voice, murmuring a soft, “They’re beautiful.”

Hinata feels a large, goofy grin expand across his mouth, a sleep-crazed giggle resounding off the walls of the shared room, _“Thank you.”_ His body loosens fully, mind and matter succumbing to the edges of sleep that swirl his being into unconsciousness, images and colors of their shared conversation stained in his mind for storage—a memory he could look back upon when discovering the first blooming of their friendship.

He misses the smile that pulls at Ushijima’s lips— something wide and unconcealed and entirely due to Hinata—upon looking over his shoulder at the slumbering auburnette, his goofy grin still etched on peaceful features. He shakes his head, a chuckle rumbling in his chest, swiveling back around and closing his notebook and text, going through his ministrations to get ready for bed as well.

“You’re welcome.”

-☾-

It’s strange to Hinata, how quickly the two fall into rhythm, taking time out of their days to talk and share bits and pieces of their lives with each other—Hinata would dare say they were _friends_ now; he knows how Ushijima refuses to use anything to write besides pens, knows his favorite foods, knows that he was the captain and ace of his highschool team, and knows about his families divorce, how he’s ambidextrous from his mother forcing him to write right handed as a child instead of with his left, and how he has two dogs back home that he misses very much. In return, Ushijima learns that Hinata has a sister he adores, a mother he loves, and a dad he never knew, he learns about the roommate situations and his ‘moods’, learns about his friends and how he always wanted to play sports, but never made any of the teams despite his athleticism, always a little too short.

Hinata generally babbles to Ushijima as he works, receiving small pieces of commentary as he works on homework for his classes, the RA happy to just listen to the chirpy redhead; a welcomed distraction to his hectic school-life and a pleasant change of pace, not finding the redhead annoying in the slightest.

Ushijima even lets Hinata accompany him from time to time on his mandatory RA duties, much like tonight, the redhead skipping down the halls, a snack in hand that he occasionally passes to Ushijima to share. Hinata finds it kind of funny, how Ushijima literally just walks down the halls to see if he hears anything unusual before just walking back to his room, not even stopping in randomly or telling people to go to their rooms for curfew; he asks how he got such a bad rep as a RA.

Ushijima’s expression sours, “I told someone to go home once, since they didn’t live on the floor, and was being a general nuisance. I gave him several warnings. The guy tried punching me, so I broke his wrist in self-defense. Ever since then everyone just kind of runs from me.”

Hinata had gaped at him, jaw practically unhinging, his mouth dropping open in shock, “No fucking way.”

Ushijima just raised an eyebrow.

He busts out into laughter, face crinkling into pleasant stress-lines in the corners of his eyes and edges of his mouth, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. _“Oh my god.”_

Ushijima gives him a concerned look, “I do not understand what is funny.”

“D-dude,” he wipes at his eyes, “People spread rumors about that for, like, _weeks_. People said that you beat the kid up on purpose and threw him out just to prove a point—that even Dean Ukai was too scared of you to do anything about it.”

Ushijima’s face flattens, fishing out his keys to unlock their door, “That is just ridiculous.”

“I mean you are pretty intimidating, Ushiwaka.”

He looks surprised, holding the door open for the shorter man to step through. “Even to you?”

Hinata whistled, “Oh, yeah. Super tall, face of steel, Ushijima Wakatoshi—killer of fun times and breaker of body parts—super scary stuff, man,” he kicks of his shoes, and turns back around to face Ushijima, who looks somewhat troubled at his words. He gives him a large smile and flashing a thumb’s up, “No worries! I know you’re actually a _huge softie_.”

Ushijima snorts and shakes his head, kicking off his shoes as well and stepping past Hinata, pausing to ruffle Hinata’s head of curls. “Don’t tell everyone that. Don’t want to ruin my reputation.”

Hinata’s brain short-circuits, swiveling his head to gawk at Ushijima, finger jabbing out to point accusingly at the taller man. “Did you just make a joke!?”

Ushijima smirks, chuckling, “Yes. Yes I did.”

He squawks, “What!? Who even _are_ you?! What did you do to the real Ushijima!?”

The chuckling grows as he sits down in his desk chair, slouching down and swaying from side to side, “You’re such a dork.”

More indignant squealing reverberates through the dorm room. They continue to tease and joke with each other, each consumed in the jovial camaraderie to care about the dimming sky and growing night that happens outside their window, too wrapped up in the comfort of their shared space—a space they quickly began to call home.

_Hinata unwittingly begins to fall for Ushijima._

-☾-

He’s _bored_ —mind numbingly so.

Hinata perches at his desk, window thrown open to let in fresh air despite the harsh, suffocating heat of summer, desperate for some kind of inspiration—desperate for some kind of spark to get him back into the swing of things, in a creativity dry-spell; it only _slightly_ worries him that he can’t find anything to spur him to make anything for his project that he has to turn in a rough-draft for by the end of the week.

He tried forcing himself to draw, to paint, but nothing would come about, becoming more and more frustrated with every piece of sketch-paper he ripped out of his notebook, tossing the worthless pages to the floor and waste bin, becoming sad little piles of reminders of his inabilities. He’s tried several things to alleviate his boredom, from shoving pencils in his small, stretched earlobes, to looking up references, to even cleaning up the scattered pieces of laundry and food wrappers that littered his side of the room, though to no avail, choosing to just thump his head against his desk.

It’s how Ushijima finds him, walking out of the bathroom, dressed in his gym clothes, gym bag thrown over his shoulder, eyebrows raised in question at the strange actions of the redhead.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

Hinata lifts his head, pencils sticking through his ears, a piece of scratch paper stuck to his forehead. “No,” he grumbles, “I’m so bored, and I can’t come up with anything for a project             I have to turn in by this week.”

Ushijima nods in understanding, eyeing the utensils protruding from the small lobes. “I thought you only had your ears pierced?”

Hinata blinks, recognition flashing in his eyes, “ _Oh_!” he slides the two pieces out of his earlobes and sets them down on the desk, “I stretched them back in high school. I didn’t go much bigger, since I have small ears,” he says with a silly grin.

“I see,” he nods and purses his lips, contemplating for a moment, “So, are you free right now?”

Hinata nods solemnly, “Yeah, why?”

Ushijima’s face colors slightly, eyes averting to the side, “Well, I’m about to head to practice. You’re more than welcome to come along. I know my team has been wanting to meet you.”

Hinata perks up, “Really? I can come?”

He receives a nod, “If you’d like to, yes.”

He jumps up quickly, rushing around the room to collect his backpack and throwing on his shoes, shouting _‘Thank you, thank you!’_ to the taller man, who watched the movements in amusement, only slightly experiencing whiplash from the redheads rapid, darting steps. Hinata hesitates for a moment over whether or not to bring his sketchbook, deciding after a moment to shove the sketchpad into his bag, slinging it over his shoulder with a lop-sided grin, “I’m ready!”

Ushijima gives him a small smile and jerks his head towards the door, beckoning him to follow him. They walk through the halls, people moving out of their way to allow the pair to pass—the two receiving funny looks, seemingly out of place together, the stoic giant accompanied by the sunny, smiling boy who enthusiastically waved at everyone he knew, a skip in his step.

They step outside into the sweltering, end-summer heat, prickles of sweat already beginning to bead against skin; they both pay it no mind, walking side by side, listening to the passing chatter of cicadas roosting in trees, their clicking songs loud and cheery, celebrating the warm mirages of summer and their descent from long hibernations.

Ushijima holds the door open for him once they reach the gym, and Hinata’s senses are immediately overwhelmed—the squeaking soles of volleyball shoes create melodies with the constant _‘thwap’_ of flesh meeting the exterior of a volleyball, his nose assaulted with the sharp smell of urethane floor polish, and his eyes are mesmerized by the bodies that seem to _fly_ through the air, steps perfectly timed to deliver powerful, mid-air attacks.

Hinata gapes and spares a glance at Ushijima, who was watching him curiously. He gives the shorter boy a small smile and gestures to the bench on the sidelines, “You can sit over there if you’d like, I need to get changed and start warm ups.”

He nods enthusiastically, bounding over to the sidelines, immediately dropping his bag to the well-polished floor, giving the players his rapt attention. It’s completely different from anything he’s ever seen before—from what he observed from bleachers or a through a TV screen—everyone is incredibly strong, well-defined bodies spring-coiled and enthusiastic in play and practice, each emanating their own special prowess and skill-set; it also is mind-blowing to see how _gigantic_ some of the players are, some maybe even taller than Ushijima, making him feel even shorter than usual. Some of the players glance at him curiously, shooting him interested, sharp grins, before addressing Ushijima, eyebrows waggling, only to receive a confused, slightly irritated look from the tall player in return.

“Alright, line up! Start with Serve practice.” Ushijima booms, setting his team straight. Hinata’s eyebrows rise; he wants aware that he was captain of his college team as well, and he’s dually impressed. The players set to work, and Hinata begins to observe, watching the fluid movements of each of the members—how some of their hands rear back to throttle full-force, bodies falling back to the ground in a squeaked _‘thumps’_ , the definition of feral power. It contrasts with some of the gentler serves, the handlers much more elegant in sending the ball in a methodical, accurate arc over the net.

He sits completely awe-struck, and feels a surge of excitement when he notices Ushijima next in line. The older man throws the ball up high into the air, gaze following its movement before he lurches forward in a powerful stride, pushing himself off the ground, contorting his spine back in an arc, long legs following as his arm whips back, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He takes Hinata’s breath away, honey eyes wide as they drink in every minute detail; he sits enraptured as brunette hair whips around the crown of Ushijima’s head, olive eyes narrowed to pinpoint focus, his curled form remaining suspended in the air, as if free-floating. He brings his hand down in a wicked display of strength, the left limb smashing the ball in a blur, the trajectory sending the ball spiraling and crashing in a loud _‘bang’_ , against the reflective surface of the floor. He lands back down with a heavy sound, the noise almost a declaration of sorts—a noise of success, strength, and superiority; he knows instantly that the reverberation must sound like a death sentence to any opposing team they go up against.

_Hinata finds his spark of inspiration in Ushijima Wakatoshi._

The redhead immediately scrabbles for his backpack, desperate to try and recreate the image of Ushijima soaring through the air before it’s gone. He scratches out his proportions desperately, half-crazed, hardly noticing when the hour’s pass, and practice is dwindling down, only catching bits and pieces that still enthralled him to no end, just making him want to stay and watch the practice for as long as possible.

“Oh ho ho~ Who do we have here?” a voice coos, followed by a loud exclamation of, “Hey, hey, hey!” startles the redhead from his sketch work, jolting from his hunched over position on the bench, whipping his head upwards to stare at the looming, towering figures. They both looked kind of intense, strangely so, each wither their own dramatic flare of a hairstyle and sharp looking smirks.

“U-uh, hey!” he exclaims back, putting on his best cheery smile, “I’m Hinata Shōyōu, Ushijima’s roommate!”

The smirk of the taller man with black, perturbed looking bedhead changes into a wide grin, eyes swimming with mirth, “Oh, I’ve heard _a lot_ about you!”

His companion with the platinum streaked hair nodded enthusiastically, golden eyes wide and excitable, “Yeah, yeah! It’s about time Ushiwaka finally invited you around! We’ve all been literally _dying_ to meet you!”

Hinata perks up, grin spreading across his face, “Oh? You guys call Ushijima ‘Ushiwaka’, too?”

“You bet! Even though Oikawa started it, technically,” the black haired man smiles, sticking out his hand, “I’m Kuroo Tetsurou, middle blocker.”

He accepts the large, calloused hand, shaking it eagerly. The owl-haired man swats Kuroo’s hands away, replacing them with both of his own, shaking the smaller hands in his string grip, “I’m Bokuto Koutarou! Wing spiker, and nationally ranked,” he smirks, wiggling his eyebrows and chuckling.

Hinata gasps, positively vibrating with excitement, jumping up from his seat, _“Gwah!_ That’s so cool! I liked how you smashed the ball over, it was like _‘bam bam!--_ ” he swings his arms in a mock display of a spike before he turns to Kuroo, “—and you blocked everything so well, like _‘thwap’, ‘thwap’!”_

They both cackle in delight, happy at getting their egos stroked, “I like you, shorty! Come around more often!” Kuroo croons, Bokuto following afterwards with, “We’re definitely going to be the best of friends!”

A groan resounds behind them, causing their heads to turn and investigate who was making the noise. A tall, pretty brunette with mismatched kneepads was posed with a stern look on his face, hands placed on cocked hips. “Who even wants to be friends with you losers?” he teases, glancing down at the shorter boy, “Please tell me you haven’t been stroking their egos too much. Their heads are big enough as is, I mean, looking at their god-awful hair.”

The two gasp in mock-offense, hands flying to their chests, faces scrunching in melodramatic pain, “Oh, Oikawa, you wound me!” Kuroo cries, “We can’t all be so narcissistic with our looks! Why try and alter something that is already so beautiful,” he gestures to all of himself.

Bokuto hoots with laughter, “Yeah, besides. You say you’re a ten, but zero times ten is still zero!”

Kuroo busts out laughing, spluttering out incomprehensible words as he clutches at his gut, Bokuto smacking his own knees at the deadpan, flat look the brunette gives them. He pushes past them in a flourish, muttering, taking steps towards Hinata, “Thanks a lot, you assholes.”

“You are what you eat!” Bokuto chirps before stopping in his tracks, turning his head to look at Kuroo, who was staring at him incredulously, “Wait—“

Oikawa snorts, covering his mouth, “Oh my god, you guys are idiots,” he turns to Hinata, “Anyways, I’m Oikawa Tooru, Ushiwaka’s closest friend and confidant—“

Cries of protest sound from the strange duo, _“We’re his friends, too!”_

Oikawa glares at them, “—Anyways, I’ve heard _lots_ about you! I know Ushijima is such a pain at first, I heard about your little lover’s spat. Don’t worry, I totally hated his guts when I first got to know him as well, but the lug definitely grows on you—“

“Wait, we’re not—“ Hinata tries to cut in, though; he is cut off by a throat clearing behind the players. They all turn to see a stern looking Ushijima, his face exasperated and flat, “Stop harassing my roommate, please. And Oikawa, the point of a ‘confidant,’ is that they keep things _confidential._ The exact _opposite_ of what you’re doing.”

The three look sheepish, taking a few steps back. He sighs and points to the opposite side of the court, “Go clean up.”

Bokuto and Kuroo give mock salutes, turning on their heels, while Oikawa sticks his tongue out, walking besides the other two in the direction of the rest of the team, hard at work cleaning up the gym from practice.

He looks to Hinata, pushing his sweaty locks from his eyes, “Sorry about them. They’re…interesting.”

“I like them!” he chirps.

He gives Hinata a smile, “That’s good then. Are you ready to leave?”

“Yes! I have something that I want to work on!” he steps back to collect his belongings, skipping up besides the taller, waiting man. They begin to walk out, bellows of, _‘Bye Chibi-chan!’_ and _‘See ya, shorty!’_ following after their retreating backs. He turns around and walks backwards briefly, waving good-bye and calling back, _“Nice to meet you!”_

The outside air has cooled considerably, enough that makes a shiver run up Ushijima’s sweat-slicked back. “What did you think?” he asks casually, sparing a glance out of the corner of his eye.

Hinata’s grin returns full-force, face tilting up to look at Ushijima, “You all are amazing!” he cries, gesturing wildly with his hands, trying to amplify his words with his gesticulations; it makes Ushijima smile, to see the young artist so excitable. “Good. I saw you drawing. What caught your eye?” he asks.

Hinata chuckles, eyes returning to the path ahead of him, “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

-☾-

The remaining trio in the gym share small, affectionate smiles with each other.

“He makes him smile,” Oikawa says simply.

Bokuto and Kuroo nod in unison, the latter murmuring, “They’ll be good for each other. If they figure it out.”

They decide they like Hinata—a definite catalyst that will set their captain up for success, support, and more importantly, _love._

-☾-

One of Hinata’s art tirades hits him full-force after that night in the gym. He looses track of the days, of when he last ate, or last slept, mind completely absorbed in his work. It concerns Ushijima a fraction, to see his roommate in such a state, unresponsive but almost creepily hyper-focused—looking completely disarrayed with his hair pushed back away from his face by a headband, fingers and forearms caked with layers of dried paints after loosing track of his pair of nitrile gloves. The budding scientist in Ushijima finds it intriguing though, how he can remain like this for such long periods of time, and he begins to wonder what his refractory period will be once he finishes his work. It’s driving him half-insane with curiosity as well, wanting to sneak a peak at what is being created behind the easel, the canvas and stand turned away from his view, the redhead barricaded by tarps, loose paint tubes, and material containers, only the top of his fluffy head visible at times over his canvas. He leaves him be, knowing better than to try and interrupt the auburnette’s work, nearly getting himself skewered with a palette knife last time he tried to communicate with Hinata while he painted.

Hinata feels this painting as if it’s part of his being; his veins feel like they’ve been pumped full of lightning, his pigments come out looking more bold and vibrant than he’s ever experienced, the hues blending effortlessly into succulent forms. His lines seem softer, but secure—definitive—giving shape to his subject without being forced into place; he tries to broadcast exactly who Ushijima Wakatoshi is in this representation of him. He’s something inexplicably tangible and unshakeable, the outer edges of his being seeming to be sharp and uncaring, but he knows better— _knows his Wakatoshi better than that._ He’s also beautiful, all tan, calloused skin, chiseled muscle, and sharp bone, his soul gentle and tender, sensitive and curious. His green eyes are captivating, much more hazel up close, flecks of brown and ochre flaring under fiber-y layers of iris—as if true pieces of earth were compressed down and given delicately to the one who deserved the sacred looking colors most.

Hinata is absorbed completely in his roommate—by his intelligence, strange wit, easy forgiveness, and his unwavering determination— and he can no longer deny that he harbors some kind of feelings, other than friendship, for the man. He isn’t sure when it exactly happened, when those troublesome seeds of affection and love started to root their way into his heart, but he can say he isn’t entirely upset over the revelation; he rather likes the free, light, airy feeling it brings him, addressing his emotions for Ushijima.

It was just a matter of telling him.

He sets his paintbrush down, his final stroke complete, an exhausted grin stretching across his face.

He believes he knows how to begin.

-☾-

His professor is left gasping at the reveal of his portrait, her small, withered hands fluttering over each brush stroke, as if retracing each moment to feel the full grasp of the emotion preserved in his work.

“Who is he?” she asks, gasp-y, eyes watery and over-emotional.

Hinata smiles, unadulterated and shining, “Someone special.”

She smiles back, “He must be. Treasure him, if he makes you paint like this.”

She accounts that is style is a rendition of modern impressionism—a true revival of classic ideals.

His heart flutters and soars, much in the same fashion as his muse does; he feels full and warm after he leaves the studio, his painting in the safe hands of his professor.

\--

He doesn’t get an opportunity to confess his feelings for about three weeks after the initial revelation, the timing never right with the two suddenly busy after being thrown into the heart of the semester—Ushijima busy cramming for clinical exams and with tournaments, traveling out of town for days at a time as his team competes. Hinata is equally as busy, taken away from dorm for long hours, called on for assembling his departments’ art’s festival this semester, the decision made by his professor after being taken with his most recent portrait of Ushijima.

He was flattered, though anxious about being handed this huge responsibility, but he feels accomplished as the pieces begin to seamlessly fall into place before him—his hard work and dedication paying off.

In a way, he’s happy it worked out like this, as a plan began to formulate in the back of his mind; he would reveal his piece to Wakatoshi at the festival, dedicating the piece to him, and hopefully, if everything goes in the right direction and he summons enough courage, he will ask Ushijima out.

It’s just the matter of tracking the RA down long enough to tell him about the festival. His first attempt was drastically unsuccessful; the words were formulated on the tip of his tongue, ready to be spewed the moment he stepped inside his dorm, but they quickly died in place, swallowed down by the young man, his courage simpering when he sees his tiny room space crammed with Ushijima’s teammates, Bokuto, Kuroo, and Oikawa, the three crowded around Ushijima. He catches the end of their conversation, all hushed, urgent whispers, “Bro, you just need to go for it. Don’t be nervous, I think it’s a perfect match—“

The voices cut-off, all heads craning to look at the redhead who stood in the doorway, alarmed by the sudden onslaught of attention. “Uh, hey everyone. Everything okay?”

They all nod, gaze flickering between each member of their condensed pod, “Definiely. No problems here. Just talking about trying for the…uh… medical entrance exams?” Kuroo says with a nervous chuckle, eyes looking pointedly at Ushijima.

Hinata raises his eyebrow and cocks his head to the side, looking at the flushed, embarrassed expression the captain was wearing, “Oh? I thought you already took them?”

The group stalls, waiting with baited breath as Ushijima clears his throat, “This is different… it’s for... an internship. They were just weighing in their opinions on the matter, is all.”

Hinata murmurs an _‘ooh’,_ setting his stuff down by his bed, not noticing the looks of relief that washed over the players. There was a few moments of awkward silence that followed them, before the three quickly dismissed themselves from the dorm, giving waves of goodbye’s and promises of swinging by again sometime.

Hinata doesn’t muster the nerve to say anything that night.

The second time he tries goes possibly even worse; at the time it seemed ingenious, the redhead choosing to just call Ushijima—it’ll be easier, not having to feel so embarrassed face to face, allowing him to play it ‘cool’.

He’s walking out of his studio classroom, phone held to his ear as he listens to the static dial tone. He stuffs his free hand in his pocket, heart in his throat as he waits for the older man to pick up. The tone clicks once connected, a gruff _‘What’_ resounding through the line.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out shakily, “Hey, Ushiwaka! You’re out of class now, right?” he receives a grunt, “So I was thinking, maybe—“ a muttered curse cuts him off along with the jostling of keys. He raises an eyebrow, concerned, “Ushijima?”

“You—“ and then a click resounds through the receiver, signifying the end of the call. He pulls the phone away from his ear, an incredulous expression pinching up his features.

_‘Well, there goes that idea.’_

When he gets home, he discovers Ushijima passed out at his desk, slumped completely over, two tall thermos’s smelling of old, cold coffee staling the room, a half empty bowl of plain white rice left abandoned and sticky besides his head. He panics at first, concerned that the man had some kind of episode that sent him to an early grave.

_‘Oh, god,’_ he inwardly frets, hands hovering over the unconscious form, _‘I’m not a doctor. I don’t even know how to take a temperature. What if he’s dead? Holy shit I didn’t get to tell him how I feel. Oh,_ shit _what if someone thinks I killed him--?’_ his monologue stops short when a loud snore rumbles out of Ushijima’s mouth, finally noticing the small dribble of drool that’s pooling at the corner of his mouth.

He grimaces, at the sight, though he sighs in relief that the man isn’t in worse shape; he’s just severely sleep-deprived and crashed from too much caffeine and lack of stable diet.

He’s able to wake the groggy, cranky Ushijima momentarily to direct him to his bed, where he crashes as soon as his head hits his pillow. He drapes a blanket over the slumbering man, mind buzzing as it tries to formulate another idea on how to ask Ushijima to the festival.

The third attempt, he’s successful in asking, though the answer isn’t entirely what he was looking for. They’re sitting in their dorm, both finally alone and recuperating from their busy schedules, watching a movie and enjoying each other’s company, when he gets the idea to simply say it then. He fidgets his foot, taking a deep breath and blurting out, “Ushijima, do you want to go to the arts festival with me? The one next week, that I’ve been helping piece together?”

Ushijima turns to look at him, blinking owlishly before frowning. “I can’t. We have another championship tournament…” he trails off when he sees the disappointment flicker and dampen the usually bright expression of the redhead. “I’m sorry…”

Hinata schools his features, placing a pseudo-smile on his lips that doesn’t reach his eyes, “No worries! You’re going to go and kick ass, right?”

Ushijima studies him for a moment and then nods, “Of course. We always do.”

Hinata let’s out a few small, weak giggles, “Good. I want to see the trophies when you get back!” He turns his attention back to the movie, throat working around the frustrated swell of disappointment that rises from his stomach and clogs his throat, making it uncomfortable and tight.

Ushijima frowns at him, concerned, eventually turning to look at the movie, not entirely watching the film, “Right.”

\--

It’s the night of the festival, the skies clear and cloudless as the sun sets from peachy-orange to crisp, purple night, casting swirled shadows across the open field in which the festivities were held. Everything looks absolutely _beautiful—_ strings of dimly lit paper lanterns hang overhead, illuminating a path from booth to booth like twinkling stars, setting an elegant glow to each hand-crafted piece that was housed underneath the white, open tents. The tables are set up for individual artists—including himself—letting them showcase their talents, as well as their represented division of the arts department. There is a central stage set up in a patch of soft, green grass, volunteer musicians playing short sets—ranging from contemporary music to classically composed—melodically entrancing the crowd of summer yukata-clad students, professors, guests and children.

There are interactive art pieces, as well as games for the little ones, happy squeals of delight echoing in the breezy summer air after winning prizes. He even managed to get booths for food, supplied by the culinary students happy to oblige and supply their talents and love for food for his cause. His department director and professor commend him for his diligence and hard work, leaving him to man his station in front of his contributed piece with a wink and small pat on the back.

He feels happy, overjoyed, even, if only slightly melancholic, wishing he could be experiencing this success and happiness with Ushijima; he schools his frown into a smile, happily indulging any questioning passer-by’s about his piece, if only to distract him for a short time.

-☾-

Unbeknownst to Hinata, more than half-way across the city, Ushijima is playing for him— putting all of his strength, heart, and soul into his game. He scores the final match-point, the crowd erupting into thunderous roars and applause, the announcers shouting about their domination—about their indomitable players and their untouchable victory— his team rushing him from all sides, slapping at his back and ruffling his hair, excited hoots and hollers causing his eardrums to crackle in protest at the obnoxious sounds. He grins at his teammates, though his eyes flicker to the exit, desperate to be somewhere he deems more important.

_It was one of the quickest matches ever played._

Oikawa laughs as Bokuto and Kuroo push on his shoulders, twin shouts of _‘Go, go, go!’_ almost completely drowned in the surrounding chaos. He glances to Oikawa who jerks his head to the exit, _“Get out of here, already._ You have somewhere better to be. I’ll handle the camera and ceremony,” he says with a wink.

He breathes a _‘thank you’,_ and darts to the exit, running through the corridors of the complex that will lead him to his locker, where he quickly gathers his things, not bothering to change, sprinting to the nearest train station, boarding the quickest ride back to the university, just barely making it on in time. His chest heaves as he fidgets nervously, ignoring the odd looks sent his way—he knows he must look insane, sweaty, panting, and disheveled—praying to the heavens that he makes it back in time for Hinata.

-☾-

Hinata adjusts the fabric of his black yukata as he stands, smoothing his hands down the embroidered, golden patterned front and sides, setting one of the pop-up tables in the pile so he can take it back to storage; the night was a huge success and it left him feeling saccharine and pleased with all of the praise he received through the night. The only booth that is left to disassemble is his, and he finds himself almost reluctant to take it down, some small part of him still wanting to keep it up as long as possible, just in case.

He sits and stares at his piece, the painting illuminated by the dull glowing lamps, a small flutter of pride settling in his ribcage. Heavy footsteps resonate through the open field, and he turns his head around, gaping openly at the sweaty, panting man before him.

“Hinata,” he pants, stepping closer to him, tossing his bag down to the ground.

“Ushijima? Shouldn’t you be at the game right now?” he asks, head craning to peer up at the flushed captain; he looked half-deranged, gasping for air, eyes wide and open, face flushed red from exertion, still dressed in his volleyball kit.

“I— _we_ won. For you. Since I promised,” he gasps out.

Hinata’s eyes widen, “Holy _shit_! Ushiwaka! That’s amazing! You should be back celebrating! Not running all the way here!”

Ushijima quickly shakes his head, “I wanted… _needed_ …to get here. I knew it was important to you. I’d rather be here.”

Hinata’s heart flutters, a smile of endearment on his pink lips, “Thank you…”

He returns the smile and glances over Hinata’s shoulder, eyes widening at the painting still perched protectively in its’ easel. “Is…that you’re painting…?”

He flushes, hands nervously fiddling with the sleeves of his yukata. “Er, yeah…”

The taller man side-steps around Hinata, walking right up to the painting, completely in awe at what he saw. It was incredible, completely breath-taking, and he’s utterly shocked at the subject matter—it’s _him_ , he knows without even reading the dedication plaque underneath the canvas; his painted form has been transcribed and suspended permanently in a ray of beautiful pigments. He’s depicted in his volleyball uniform, the sharp red and white of his domiciles national colors contrasting sharply with the soft beige, pinks, and creams that made up the rest of his body, as well as with the darkly painted background, the makings of the court and net present, but hardly noticeable, making him the center-focus of the piece. He’s juxtaposed on the canvas as if he is reaching out for a spike, hands delicately, but firmly draped in the air, body taut— ready to spring back towards the ground upon delivering his ricocheting blow to a ball he knows will never meet the painted hand. His expression is concentrated, though he appears comfortable and in control, sharp edges of his face accented with soft pinks, reds, and yellows, giving him a more tender, less intimidating aura, drawing the viewer in for a closer look.

The most captivating portion of the painting; however, was the fact that Hinata gave him _wings._ He manipulated the light source that shined from the right corner of his painting, using the falling light as if like a spot-light, using it to paint expansive eagle-like wings that stretched in the position of take-off. Tiny, intricate brushstrokes detailed every piece of smooth, downy covered bone, every overlaid feather—what would be formless blobs of color transformed by blending and saturating heavy shades of creamy white, beige, browns, pale yellows, and sparkling gold together to create what appeared to be weightless, strong, graceful wings. Loose feathers fluttered down the canvas, mimicking the behavior of the light source, their weightlessness radiating like falling illumination, swirling and dissipating to the surrounding darkness of the ground. He looked like a transient being—he looked _beautiful_ and _free._

He takes a shuddering breath as he reads the engraved plaque that is delicately screwed in place in the middle of the wooden frame, the words reading: _Dedicated to U.W. who dares to soar. I thank him for bringing hues of vibrant life back into my world, as I was not aware that I was missing them. Now that I have them, I hope I never have to live without them—without him._

Hinata clears his throat after a while, lips numb from chewing on them in trepidation. “I…just wanted to paint how you looked on that day…paint how you made me feel, which…I mean, I don’t know entirely how to say this, but—“

Ushijima cuts in, face turning to peer down at the auburnette, green eyes wide and honest, “Hinata, I think I’m falling in love with you.”

“That’s great Ushijima, but please let me finish. I’ve liked you for such a long time—wait what,” he stops once he brain caught on to what the older man had just said.

Ushijima takes another shuddering breath—this time for a completely different reason—exhaling out of his mouth before saying again, firmly, “I’m falling for you Hinata Shōyōu. I want you to go out with me, if you would like to, I mean…”

Hinata gasps and leaps forward, lunging onto his tiptoes, tugging Ushijima down for a searing kiss that makes Ushijima gasp as well. It’s everything Hinata has dreamed about, the older man’s lips pleasantly warm and pliable against his own chapped and bitten ones, tasting of something warm and heady and earthy—like salty, residual sweat, and like mulled, spiced wine, something he’s positive he could become drunk off of if ever given the opportunity.

He pulls away with a high-pitched, airy exhale, eyes fluttering open, unaware they ever closed. He glows as he flashes the brightest smile possible; his cheeks hurting from the stretch, completely unable to contain his joy that threatens to explode and bubble over. “Please be my boyfriend!” he chirps.

Ushijima leans in for another kiss, smiling against his lips, “Anything for you.”

-☾-

_Three years later_

Hinata sits with his legs folded in his chair, the limbs buzzing in discomfort from the prolonged pressure; he steadily ignores the tingling in his toes, preoccupied with his task at hand. He’s working on a commissioned landscape piece for a lovely couple, a commemorative recapturing of their wedding day, a pleasant garden scene decorated with finely pruned rose bushes, shrubberies, and seasonal flowers, a gazebo at the center encircled at the back by a lily-pad speckled pond. The work makes him smile; he finds it romantic that the husband had commissioned him as a surprise anniversary gift for his wife, and he’s more than happy to invest his time in capturing the image in his paints, the sun from his window warming his face and bones into a serene state of bliss as he works.

He perks up when he hears the front door to the apartment open and close, the clinking of keys smacking against the kitchen counters, heavy steps approaching him in his studio room.

“Shōyōu,” Ushijima murmurs, walking over to his fiancé and planting a kiss to the side of his face. The redhead hums happily, easy smile tilting his lips, “Welcome home, love.”

“Have you been in here all day?” he asks, carding his hand through the tufts of curls that peak unruly under his headband.

He nods, adding a few last, finishing touches before setting his brush down and turning to face Ushijima; he looked dead on his feet, dark, crescent shaped bruises tinting under his sleepy eyes. “Long shift?”

Ushijima sighs and nods, scrubbing his hand over his face. He looks back at Hinata and chuckles, thumb reaching to scrub at a rogue splotch of periwinkle paint on his cheek. “You’re a mess.”

He sticks out his tongue playfully, “And you look like a zombie who reeks of antiseptic.”

“Touché,” he leans back down and peppers kisses against the edges of his face, nipping at his jaw, “Does that mean it’s time for a shower?”

Hinata giggles and swats Ushijima’s face away, standing up and grabbing his hand in his own, tugging on it to lead him towards their shared bedroom. “I have a better idea, first.”

Ushijima raises a dark eyebrow, but follows obediently behind the shorter man. When they get to the room, Hinata points at the bed, “Go relax.”

He does as he’s told, climbing onto their shared bed and resting his back against the headboard. The brunette watches as Hinata shimmies out of his shorts and boxers, the over-sized, paint-stained shirt the only thing to cover him and give him a sliver of modesty; he giggles when he sees Ushijima’s flush and unabashed staring, crawling his way over to him and settling himself down on his lap. Ushijima’s large hands trace over the pale skin of Hinata’s thighs as the redhead places small, gentle kisses from Ushijima’s brow all the way down to his nose, cheeks and jaw, leaving a searing trail of heat in his lip’s wake. Ushijima gasps, hands gripping at Hinata’s small hips, when teeth scrape against the tanned flesh of his pulse point, his heartbeat ricocheting in his veins, heat pooling low in his stomach as Hinata’s canines suckle the skin, leaving a small, pink love bite.

Hinata smiles against the warm skin, trailing lower until he reaches the collar of Ushijima’s scrub top, a playful pout puckering up his lips. He tugs at the edge of the horrid colored fabric—a sterile teal green that feels scratchy to the touch—demanding the piece be discarded. The brunette obliges him with a smile on his lips, peeling the top off and tossing it to the side; Hinata’s hands are on him instantly, small hands tracing hardened muscle and each divot protruding bone makes. The trail of kisses ventures further and further south, only paused when well placed, sucking bites or flat-tongued licks delve on hardened, rosy nipples. Ushijima groans and rocks his hips upwards against Hinata’s, making the smaller man utter a throaty moan in response, his hips jerking down to meet the aching, hardened length that swells against his ass.

Shōyōu scoots down further, face at eye-level with the straining erection in Ushijima’s pants. Honey eyes flicker upwards to meet his partners, a crooked grin splaying across plump lips, at the ravaged state the man was in—bitten lips were sucked between teeth to keep any noise constrained, bites sucked into blossoms across taut skin, pupils blown wide, swallowing the surrounding green of his irises, head shaking in a pleading nod.

The redhead slips his hands underneath Ushijima’s waistband; he coos in delight at the dribbling, warm heat he finds, hands stroking in fluid, practice movements against the hard flesh, “ _So hard already,‘Toshi. Just relax, I’ve got you.”_

Wakatoshi’s eyes slip shut as he groans low in his throat, his head tilting back to rest against the headboard. He looses himself in the quick, firm movements Hinata’s wrist works on his cock, nearly choking when wet lips stretch to accommodate his length, eager tongue flattening against the heavy underside of his erection.

_“Shit,”_ he curses, hands flying up to fist into Hinata’s unruly curls, fingers pushing the locks out of their restrictive headband. “H-hi—nng. Shōyōu. Reach into the bedside drawer,” he groans, feeling almost agitated from the sweet loss of pressure and moist heat.

Hinata crawls over and grabs the lube, setting it besides Wakatoshi. “Thank you, now turn around.”

The redhead feels a pleasant shiver crawl up his spine as he turns around, bending down to grasp at Ushijima’s swollen cock once more, keening when he feels his lover’s hands circle around the swell of his ass, fingers delving between his cheeks, the calloused pads sliding over his puckered entrance.

Wakatoshi liberally applies lube to his fingers, warming the water-based gel on his fingers, before using his index finger to circle his lovers’ entrance once more, slowly delving the digit into tight, warm heat. Hinata groans a high-pitched, needy sound, hips bucking backwards as he shoves his ass higher into the air, his hands stuttering in their stroking. The brunette loves to see the artist like this, quivering just from his fingers alone, completely wanton and pleading. He rubs a soothing hand over Hinata’s right ass cheek before placing a slap there, the plump little mass of tissue bouncing. He yelps, stuttering out a moaned version of Ushijima’s name, pleading for _more, more, more,_

He gives it to him, adding another finger and scissoring the two digits apart, watching as the taut muscle of his entrance is gradually worked open. Hinata starts to suck on Ushijima once more, pushing the swollen head of his cock all the way to the back of his throat, moaning around the thickness once a third finger is added to his hole. Another smack to his ass sends him moaning vibrations through Ushijima’s member and dangerously close to the edge, those fingers relentless as they assault his prostate, curling and pushing against the swell of dense tissue deep inside of him.

Ushijima withdraws his fingers from the redhead, much to his whining displeasure, the redhead quickly scrabbling to hover over the brunette once more, keeping the man in place. Ushijima raises one eyebrow before his confusion is silenced by a smoldering, passionate kiss; a clash of teeth, tongue and lips. Shōyōu grabs at the lube, slicking up the saliva coated cock, applying some to his stretched entrance as well placing a kiss to Ushijima’s brow, before guiding the stiff member against his hole and sinking down.

“ _F-f-uck,_ ” the brunette stutters, hands gripping at the thin, protruding hip bones, fingers digging in hard enough to leave light bruises; he uses all of his self control in restraining himself from just fucking upwards into the tight heat of Hinata’s ass. He watches at Hinata’s chest heaves as he babbles out curses and moans, head thrown back to reveal a smooth column of throat. One hand travels up a quivering thigh, and over his still shirt-clad chest, and up to the expansive neck, placing a gentle squeeze against his trachea, the pleasant gasp of _‘oh,’_ shooting straight to his cock, making his member twitch.

When Hinata’s pelvis is fully seated against Ushijima, he releases a shuttering breath, nuzzling his cheek against the warm, open palm of his lovers’ hand that had come up to caress the freckled face. He smiles affectionately at Ushijima, his irises swimming with happiness, serenity, and _love._

Ushijima returns the smile, bending forward off the headboard to place a gentle, ghost of a kiss against the swollen lips. Hinata’s eyes flutter close, hips rising off of Ushijima in an experimental buck before they snap back down, reuniting the pelvises once more.

He gasps and clutches at Ushijima’s shoulders for anchoring and leverage, repeating the motion until he finds a steady rhythm— _rise, fall, rise, fall_ —hips beating out a persistent staccato, his smaller cock bobbing along, swollen and leaking precum from neglect. Wakatoshi finds his niche in the rhythm, rolling his hips upwards on Hinata’s _fall_ , eliciting a sweet, chirpy moan from pink lips. He repeats the actions until their movements become frantic, Hinata’s shirt ripped off in a flurry as lips clash once more—licking, sucking, biting—in a battle of dominance, fervor, and ecstasy.

Hinata begins to feel that familiar coil spread low in his belly, signifying his pending release. “Hmm, hnng. _Wakatoshi!_ I-I’m close!”

The brunette grunts as he fucks upwards into Hinata, the man’s smaller frame bouncing against the force of the rut, head of his cock pushing and rubbing against the artists’ prostate, making him see white one last time, coming in thick ribbons moments later across his stomach, a muted shout stretched across dropped-open lips.

The spasms of Hinata’s inner walls from his release causes Ushijima to be pushed over the brink, giving a few last, erratic thrusts before burying himself in Hinata’s tight ass, emptying his cum completely inside his lover. Shoōyōu’s body gives out to exhaustion, sweat-slicked forehead coming to rest against Ushijima’s own, kiss-swollen lips peppering tender, loving kisses against his nose and eyelids.

He murmurs, “I love you, Wakatoshi,” as he lifts himself up off of Ushijima’s softening cock, remnant, purulent drips of his release curling down his thighs. Wakatoshi licks his lips eyes flickering from the rogue droplets to his lover’s sunny face, fondness clearly expressed on each crease of his smile and crinkle of his eyes.

He chuckles, kissing him sweetly, murmuring back, “I love you too, Shōyōu.”

Hinata nods, playfully tapping his cheek, “Good, you better! Now, let’s go get that shower.”

Ushijima nods in agreement, sliding off the bed and collecting a giggling Hinata in his arms bridal style. “Practice for the future?” he asks, wrapping his hands around his fiancés neck, resting his head against his chest.

He hums, depositing the smaller man on the edge of the bathtub as he set the water up for a warm bath. “Have you thought any more as to where you would like to hold the ceremony?”

Hinata taps at his chin, “Not entirely. I wish we could just stay in the country for it…” he trails off, contemplating, “…maybe somewhere not too far away, then? Europe always sounded really beautiful, though,” he gasps excitedly, “Oh, ‘Toshi! Think, if we go to Europe! Just imagine all of the architecture and the art!” he croons, practically swooning.

He chuckles, chest full and keening at the swell of love and adoration he feels for his lover, a pleasant crawl of heat and nirvana spreading through his veins; he knows there is nothing he wouldn’t do to make Shōyōu happy. He wants to give the younger man the world in as many forms as possible, to help the artist fufill their goals and aspirations, to care for the man as he’s in pain or in sickness, to be there for him, when his world might be seemingly falling apart. He wants the broken pieces, the nasty shards of grief, the plumes of happiness and the blossoms of new growth and new life—a life together. It makes Ushijima feel beautiful, that he’s allowed to do so, their lives inevitably and irrevocably intertwined together for the rest of their days.

“Anything for you,” he says.

Hinata beams, “As long as it’s with you!”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you so much for taking the time to leave kudos, comments, and for even just reading and enjoying!! If there are any mistakes or bits that seem out of place, please drop me comment and let me know!!
> 
> Lots of love!!! xoxox
> 
> You can come chat with me at:
> 
> @tangy-tangible-tangelos (main) or my Haikyuu!! blog @asahisglassheart


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